Tag Archives: Chicago Cubs

Upon further review: Instant Replay = Game Over, World Series Over, Over-easy egg tops re-reviewed green chile fettuccine carbonara alfredo. Over.

3 Nov

What do movie sequels have in common with instant replays? 
The odds against me adding ‘really awesome TV watcher’ to my LinkedIn skill set seem greater than or equal to Hollywood sequels from the previous century dictating the outcome of the 2015 World Series: Cubs Win!?!?
  

The Game Changer Variable

BTTF2 scripted prior to the implementation of MLB’s NFL envy Instant Replay Review rule, or if not football then horse racing’s photo finish – yet another gambling-related boner; yer up DraftKings – on behalf of MLB’s Puritan brain trust.

  


Upon further review: Game Over

 All MLB outcomes – or in the parlance of my fellow Chicagoans: ‘BELCH’ – no longer rest in the hands, arms, legs, eyes, jockstraps, superstitions and mouths turgid with seeds, bubble gum and/or smokeless tobacco blessed by the baseball gods: Nada, Nope, Nein, Nyet. 

Like its head-traumatized Uncle Rico: The NFL – and OTB parlors all across this proud nation- all MLB games now are ultimately decided by one assumes a Vatican of white men with the finest tuned TV watching skills in the universe. Never again shall a call at the plate be made based on sight & sound, guts & nose, skill & experience (unless elaborated upon in LinkedIn profile as ‘really awesome at watching TV’) and so apocryphal anecdotes such as the one to follow will be rendered as meaningless as home run records set while under the influence of steroids or even the Cubs 2015 campaign: 

‘Babe Ruth once took a called strike from Walter Johnson reputedly traveling with such speed that the Babe didn’t even see the ball pass the plate. No sooner did said ball smack into the leather of the catcher’s mitt and the ump yell ‘yer out’ did the Babe beam back at the man in blue asking, ‘Cmon ump. Did you even see that pitch?’ ‘Well, no,’ replied the ump. Ruth: ‘Me neither. But it sounded outside.’ 

So maybe it wasn’t babe Ruth and maybe it was Yogi Berra (RIP) and maybe the pitcher was Nolan Ryan (rookie season). And maybe blue made the right call. Or maybe it never even happened. Without instant replay, the truth shall neither be known or overturned.

Auden can’t love wingtips …so suggests my Google drive spell check because technology is never quite right, just more right than you or me will be ever again…and now that the robots of perception have taken over MLB, instant replay is the most right ever and bigger than all of us (the World Series included; the proof is a recent decision to delay the 2015 Fall Classic to review whether or not to continue with game one or two without instant replay by reviewing the delay of the game’s instant replay; apparently a pair of Harry Carey specs and empty 40 of Falstaff where discovers next to the chewed through broadcast truck cables) 

And now that I’ve ejaculated my truck over the instant replay rule delaying the play of a game – and this blog – MLB fixated on in order to ramp itself up to PS2 speed allow me to produce for you a conciliatory instant replay of my own device, an olive branch of you will or if you prefer, a casserole, only because you can’t eat a slow motion instant replay I remade the dish from my last post and rephotographed it and upon further review the sweet smokey flava came from bacon shoplifted from the butcher by my 16 month old felon of a son. (Both my son’s identity and that of the butcher will remain anonymous in order to protect me from CPS and the security camera monitor’s career prospects should he or she care to apply for upcoming openings with MLB, as instant replay booths eventually become as ubiquitous as really awesome TV watchers.)

  
Instant Replay: Green Chile Alfredo Linguine Carbonara con bacon

   
    
 

Man, Nacho, Nachoman or Super Nachoman?

18 Apr

Praise Allah, Jah, Yahweh, Nietzsche y todos Los Dios por MLBeisbol esta en el aire. Literally, for me en Chicago aqui. The Wrigley Field extreme makeover be better both seen and heard from the friendly confines of our balcony – at least until urinegate passes. 

 Our apt complex’s western facing facade glows eves awash in the brilliant digital hues of a video screen so grandiose and HD one can count the whiskers on the scoreboard visage of Jon Lester’s chinny chin chin from the friendly confines of our balcony – at least until urinegate passes.  Compounded by a bombastic sound system quite possibly purchased from the old Shea Stadium on e-bay (blown speakers included) filling our living room starting-line up announcements and 7th inning stretches the Cubs and we are one.

Y ahora yo lustily await at least uno otra mas Wrigley makeover assault on mi senses: that of smell. Please St. Harry and St. Ernie let the upgrade to concessions – both stands and menus – include a yet-to-be installed jet engine ventilation system. Not to drown out the cheeky organ asides echoing across Lakeview rooftops. No. So that the unbeatable eau de beisbol wafts down Halsted Street and on into my nasal cavities y mi casita at gametime.

And if you are taking requests Santos y St Santo, charge the dominant scent not with that of the grill but of the nacho cheese pump. 

While to the noses and tongues of millions (and their gastrointestinalalogists) Proustian Wrigley Field remembrances smack of hot dogs, stale beer, chew spit and urinal mints past, the same no hablar o’ moi nariz. No whiff nor sniff not snort of Wrigley passes these nostrils without recalling golden, delicious petroleum nacho cheese and its DIO: Super Nacho Man.

….slow, gauzy, dream sequency dissolve por favor…The Summer of 1989. Cubs vs Mets. Wrigley bleachers. Heat + humidity = that trapped under a wet German Sheppard feeling. Maddux. The Hawk. Andre “Woo”.Grace. Andre “Woo”. Sandberg. Girardi. Andre “Woo”. Gooden. Mookie. Cone. HoJo. The Straw That Stirs Dykstra electrifying the bleachers entire into chanting “grab your balls” each time he storms into the outfield, to which Dykstra responds by vigorously hustling his crotch, spitting, then spinning around to face home plate.  popcorn. peanuts. cracker jacks. Harry Carey. Gallons of warm Cub soda y front row center Super Nacho Man: a 300lb glistening, sweaty, shirtless balding wonder of  tumescence, a drum tight party keg beer gut protrusion upon which precariously rocks a plastic nachos boat. Left hand lowers and raises beer goblet to wash down bites of hot dog delivered to mouth with right hand, pausing en route for a quick dip in the nacho cheese sauce. A soupy yellow trail runs between Super Nacho Man’s hirsute and ample breasts which he erotically mops up with the final bite of his Super Nacho Cheese Dog at the exact moment Dykstra normally racks his balls, only before he can, Nails stops dead in his cleats, beguiled and/or blinded by Super Nacho Man’s omniscience popping the golden nugget dripping with sweat, hair, cheese and spit into his maw then roaring, “C’MON LEONARD, GRAB YOUR BALLS ALREADY!’ launching the nacho boat into the ivy, the game nearly called due to his thunderous tortilla chip, beer foam, jalapeno, and nacho cheese storm.  

With Wrigley v.2 bleachers under construction until at least June, and piss cups de rigueur, yo suggest settling down on your belly homegrown – and IMO vastly superior – super nachos not unlike the platas flying around these parts.   Key ingredients: pinto beans from the stove top not the can; NM green chile; non-petroleum yellow cheese; leftover grilled meats; hot dogs and sweat optional. 

 Extra added bonus innings in your mouthole: Mi Esposa’s contribution: Chile Gringa Nachos. Ground chicken, onions, garlic, chicken broth, white beans, fresh scallions, white beans and Jilipepper from NM. 

  

(Yes, those are the dimmed lights of Wrigley blurry in background.)  

Viva Los Cubs!